


In Conflict

by Adores



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholic Mycroft Holmes, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mycroft-centric, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-15 07:14:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5776450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adores/pseuds/Adores
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft delevolpes a dangerous habit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a multi-chaptered fic. I wanted more vulnerable!Mycroft, with a few vices of his own to fight off. He's a Holmes, after all.

No one, except perhaps Sherlock, suspected. Mycroft’s carefully honed taste in alcohol drinks caught attention of some dignitaries who owed him a favour two and hence the endless stream of gifts followed. His cabinet was now nearly full, filled with fine liquor that even his father looked at enviously when he had a chance. And it seemed like a good idea to take a few sips out of one of the clear bottles when he was under great pressure and his stress level started sprawling out of control, just to calm himself down. Just a little buzz in his head, and a little hopeful, and naïve assurance to himself with the aid of alcohol that everything would be alright.

Everything seemed under control for a while. Mycroft was a hedonist at heart after all. A man was allowed to keep a few vices, he thought, and after giving up on the night snacks, due to a nearly introduced diet(by his doctor and in part Sherlock) he felt more deserving of the few sips of wine before going to bed.  

A few sips turned into a few glasses. He also started spending more time at the Diogenes with a meticulously maintained office at the far end of the isle. He also had full access to the club’s large drink collection and traditionally trained butlers ready to bring him any drink he desired on a silver plate. Of course he indulged himself, whenever there was a frustrating idiot on the other end of the line begging for his assistance in Mandarin, or Anthea told him Sherlock got himself almost killed by some sadistic serial killer yet again, he touched his drink like a habit. Just a sip, just a glass.

It was unfortunate that one day Sherlock got almost shot at when he was rather drunk. It was only half past 4pm and there were stacks of agendas required his attention on his desk and on his computer. Anthea anxiously waited outside of his office, too afraid to knock on the door in case he was in a foul mood. She’d seen him in this state before, refusing to talk or respond or work but simply locking himself in the office for hours, just drinking. He would come out of his own shells eventually but it would cost them nearly 24 hours, usually. But the stress was sometimes too much. He often felt the strong, overwhelming urge to just give up and do a runner from the responsibilities.

He didn’t see himself working for the government for the rest of his life anyway; he was in fact carefully constructing a pension plan to live out his life in somewhere remote and discreet. And he would take the cabinet with himself, a souvenir that symbolized his own success as a consultant. And yes, that was how he thought of himself. A consultant as simple as. Unlike Sherlock, he didn’t need to add anything to his title to flaunt his abilities _World’s first consulting criminal detective_. That git.

Eventually Anthea had to nearly shout her words, trying to grab his attention in the haze of the tipsiness, away from the amber liquid glowing in the crystal glass he had been holding all afternoon: “Sherlock’s tripped into the Thames and the police are still searching for him, sir!” And it did work.

 “What?”

“The suspect tried to shot him apparently, and Sherlock had to jump into the Thames in order to avoid the shot, according to the witnesses.”

 

 

He got into his car, holding Anthea’s hand tightly in order to stand and walk properly. Her worried eyes followed his wobbling movements but both knew that they couldn’t just sit back and wait in the comfort of his office—it was Sherlock they were talking about. Their greatest fear came in the form of a death of a certain _consulting detective._ Drunk or not, Mycroft needed to be there, as close to his brother as possible. Anthea quietly closed the door after he seated himself and took the front seat for herself, instructing the driver to drive as fast as he could and ignore the traffic lights on the way.

When they got there, the whole messy situation was already wrapped up more or less. Detective Inspector Lestrade was chatting amicably to the uniforms securing the scene. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. But it was obvious to Mycroft that he was somewhat safe somewhere. The medics were about to leave, smiling and joking good-heartedly. There were only a couple of police cars still at the scene that were about to leave as well.

“Mr Holmes?”  Lestrade waived his hand, having recognized his face despite the fact that they never formally met each other apart from the few glances from a distance in the past.

“Sherlock’s safe,” Mycroft told Anthea under his breath.

“Then we should leave, sir,” Anthea said rather urgently, looking at the detective’s approaching form with a frown. She even tugged on his coat sleeve to catch his attention when he didn’t respond.

Something flared inside of his chest, something quite akin to anger.

“You just missed him,” Lestrade said, out of breath. “Sherlock just left and went back to his place. Apart from a couple of mouthful of the toxic water in his stomach, he will be alright. He’s a good swimmer, isn’t he?” The detective’s obvious attempt to make light of the situation added fuel to the fire.

“You.” Mycroft took a deep breath. “You… You dragged Sherlock into this mess and nearly killed him.” At that Lestrade looked at him sharply in surprise, eyes round.

“Sir…” Anthea grabbed his shoulder, trying to turn his attention back to their idling car waiting for him to get in. Mycroft didn’t actually mind her manhandling. He appreciated her concern, almost. But he didn’t, _couldn’t_ , give up throwing more words in before his back was completely turned against Lestrade.

“You watch over Sherlock better next time because otherwise I will finish your career.”

He felt the swell of pride in the fact that he didn’t stutter or slur his words despite his drunkenness. Anthea pushed his back forcefully as he turned his head for the last time to sneak a glance at the look on Lestrade’s face: He looked alarmed but not scared. Unfortunately.

“Sir, we will drive you home. I will check up on Sherlock while you are resting.”

 Mycroft only nodded, having exhausted all energy to talk after that. The allure of a sleep was too tempting that he gave up thinking about the whole situation again, and fell asleep in his car.

 

*

 

When he woke up the next morning, everything came back in stark clarity in a rush. Mycroft blinked several times, asking the question: “ _Did I actually do it?”_  

He phoned Anthea as soon as he found his mobile lying next to his face on the bed, and asked more questions about the circumstance the other night: Sherlock was safe. Quite well and healthy. Might catch the flu but Anthea seemed to think Sherlock at least deserved it.

“I should apologize to the Detective Inspector, shouldn’t I?”

“Would you like to visit his office today sir?”

Mycroft was surprised by Anthea’s suggestion. He intended to apologize for his behaviour last night of course, but didn’t think of visiting him in person. He was thinking of fetching a card with a handwritten apology which would be undoubtedly thrown out in the bin and he would be able to send someone to destroy the evidence of it if needed. If visited him in the office, there would be witnesses; most of them wouldn’t be aware of his role in the government or who he was but he was already acquainted with the Superintendent and the man feared him and he made sure of it and…and...

“Officially, Sherlock was a major witness to the case, sir. You are his brother,” Anthea continued, interrupting his train of thoughts efficiently.

“I am just a concerned brother, aren’t I?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Fetch a car within the hour. I will be ready for a quick visit.” Mycroft hung up the phone and lied in bed for a few minutes, thinking back to the scandalized look on Lestrade’s face and his insults. He must have looked like a clown to him. Red face, slurred words (and to think he thought he didn’t sound drunk at all) and worse, Anthea had to manhandle him so he wouldn’t fall on his face on his wobbling legs. What a memorable first introduction.

 

He arrived at the New Scotland Yard building with just enough pride and self-confidence that he was able to keep his head high but it was just that. He easily found Lestrade’s office as soon as he got off the lift. All glass walls after all. Whoever came up with the idea of those wretched things was just wicked and cruel, Mycroft thought, taking each step toward his office with firm determination.

Before he could knock on the door, Lestrade noticed his approaching, having looked up from the pile of documents on his desk.

“Good morning, Detective Inspector.”

“Greg, please. How are you feeling, Mr Holmes?” And there was a surprising trace of teasing in his tone and for a moment, Mycroft felt dumbfounded.

“I am… quite well, thank you.” Apart from the pounding headache, of course.

“Well, I called Sherlock this morning, just checked up on him and he sounds perfectly well. Have you talked to him yet?”

“No. I haven’t…I am not here to discuss Sherlock’s well-being, Inspector.” Mycroft purposefully didn’t look at Lestrade. His curious eyes were somehow too much.

“It’s Greg. Is there something I can help?”

“It’s about my behaviour yesterday _, of course_.” And Mycroft realised he used _the tone_ , that he used to his staff members without realising it.

Lestrade simply smiled at it, as if he understood what was going on at all. Which he didn’t of course.

“I was rather inebriate, to put it rather bluntly, when I was informed that Sherlock got himself almost murdered last night.” It was painful to pull each word out of his mouth, to admit that he was the one in the wrong in this particular incident, as obvious as it was.

“Mr Holmes.”

“Mycroft, please. That would be my father.”

“Mycroft, it’s okay. I understand. It was a bad timing and all. I’ve been working in the force for nearly 20 years now. Your behaviour was completely understandable under the circumstance. God knows what I’d do if one of my family was in that kind of situation and I was drunk… “ Lestrade chuckled, as if they were sharing an in-joke already, as if he understood Mycroft…

“Thank you for accepting my apology.”

“No problem. Are you here just for the apology? Because I know you are quite a busy man, Mycroft. According to Sherlock, you are…”

“I occupy a minor position in the government, yes.”

“Yes, that.” Lestrade’s eyes crinkled.

“I wanted to apologize in person, that’s all. If you need any help in future in relation to any case Sherlock consults, please don’t hesitate to contact me anytime.” With that, Mycroft produced his name card from his inner pocket—he almost never used them, but he nonetheless wanted to be prepared. On the name card it read: _Mycroft Holmes._ _General Counsel. Department of Transport._

When Mycroft left the building, the pounding headache somehow subsided, for some unknown reason.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter in which Mycroft is still quite not aware of his own developing addiction and that Lestrade's worried for both of them not just Sherlock.

After the first incident and nearly putting their working relationship in jeopardy, Mycroft didn’t make the same mistake for the months that followed. Having Lestrade on his side turned out to be quite beneficial, and his conviction was solidified further when he got a call from Lestrade one evening: “First, Sherlock’s alright.”

Mycroft took a deep breath, having had assumed the worst when he saw his mobile number on the screen.

“But he’s in hospital now. I found him unconscious at his flat today. He overdosed.”

Mycroft gripped the arm of his chair, trying to stay more aware of his surroundings. He couldn’t risk causing a commotion in the club where his business and work associates frequented, could he?

“He’s stabilized. The doctor is expecting a full recovery and all. It’s just that…”

Lestrade was obviously taking it hard and it showed from his distressed tone and the prolonged silence that followed.

Something warmed his chest.

 “I am worried, Mycroft. At this rate, he’s going to kill himself one day. I don’t know what drug he will try next time or how much he will take it but he doesn’t care. He needs help…. He needs…”

“Inspector, you shouldn’t worry yourself too much. Sherlock has resources. He has me. I will try my best to secure his placement in a capable rehab and…”

“...do you…do you think it will work?” Lestrade’s voice was weak. Mycroft flinched at the question that he had asked himself many times before as it echoed back at him.

“It will. It should.”

 “...of course,” Lestrade said softly.

 

*

 

It didn’t work. Sherlock managed to escape within one week from his admittance. By the time he left the rehab he was wearing one of their staff’s uniforms. Within the hour of his escape, he purchased a train ticket to Dublin with Mycroft’s own credit card, leaving a deliberate trail behind for Mycroft’s people to fumble their way after. Mycroft he was glad that Sherlock had nicked his credit card and he forgot to cancel it. Only god knew what Sherlock might get up to if he was too desperate. The boy was not a proper adult, and didn’t know how to properly make and spend money. It was all Mummy’s fault.

Mycroft felt the dread came over him eventually, when Anthea, the same evening, gave him the last report of the day which contained virtually nothing of substance on Sherlock’s whereabouts. For all they knew, Sherlock could be already snorting cocaine in some drug den he found on his way to Dublin. There was a large withdrawal about an hour ago, according to the report, that Mycroft feared, could be spent on drugs rather than food or accommodation. Sherlock would rather choose to get a hit rather than book a hotel room. After all, Sherlock didn’t have any problem sharing heat and space with homeless people on the street.

Conceding his defeat, Mycroft closed the file. He was still in the Diogenes club. Only a couple of patrons and the night staff could be seen in the dimmed lounge. He decided to change his location to his own office, to lick his own wound in privacy; as he left the lounge, with a tiny voice of objection in the back of his head, he signaled the near-by staff and asked for a double whiskey to be brought to his office The staff only nodded once stiffly and swiftly left the lounge to fetch his drink.

Whilst waiting for his drink, Mycroft looked down at his mobile one more time. Of course Sherlock wouldn’t contact him. He called, even _texted_ his brother, nearly begging him to respond. He even brought up their parents who were blissfully not aware of the recent development of Sherlock’s drug habits for the time being. But it was only a matter of time. Neither of them was a fool.

Scrolling down the one-way commutation between Sherlock and himself in the past month, Mycroft saw a text from Lestrade. It was sent a few weeks ago when Sherlock got transferred from the hospital to the rehab. Not being aware of his detest in texting, Lestrade had sent several messages in the following weeks asking after Sherlock’s well-being. Some of which Mycroft flat-out ignored, and one of them he only responded by calling him in the middle of the night when he scraped enough time in-between the meetings he attended.

_How is Sherlock? How are you doing?_

Mycroft looked at the last text. He was too afraid to reply. The words were too kind, too casual. It was not the over-worked cashier’s forced chirpy greeting nor the dry ‘how do you do’ he heard in a meeting too many times before that he could simply respond with a practiced smile and a handshake. There was a certain lack of deceit and an element of mind games that he was used to in the simple message that Mycroft felt, utterly and helplessly, confused and glad in equal measure.

Sipping his drink that he had been ignoring in favour of looking at the text, he finally decided to push the dial button. If there was anyone in the world who would care about Sherlock enough to share this burden with him tonight, apart from their poor parents, it was Lestrade.

“Mycroft? What’s wrong?”

Mycroft chuckled at Lestrade’s automatic assumption that something was wrong. It was almost… endearing.

“Sherlock’s heading to Dublin as we speak, Inspector. He’s escaped.”

“Bugger!”

“Indeed…” Mycroft took another sip from his tumbler, enjoying the cool liquid warming its way down his throat. He closed his eyes as the last trail of the bitterness tickled his tongue. “Hmm…”

“Mycroft? Where are you?” Lestrade asked suspiciously.

“Diogenes.”

“What?” Lestrade sounded utterly confused.

“It’s a club that I frequent.”

“Oh well… so are you drinking? Taking a break?” Mycroft could hear his concern in his voice, poorly masked as a casual question.

“I quite deserve this glass of whisky, after what Sherlock has managed to do to all of us this time. Mummy is visiting London next week and she will have questions and I can’t…”

Mycroft realised a moment too late that he had said too much, revealed himself too much to this almost stranger, in the name of sharing a bit of the burden of taking care of Sherlock and failing them. His parents. Sherlock. All of them. Even himself.

“Hey, hey… Mycroft. It’s not your fault.”

“I am perfectly aware that this is not my fault, Inspector.”

“It’s Greg.”

Mycroft swallowed another mouthful of the whiskey. The tumbler was already empty. He forcefully pushed the button under his desk, to alert the staff.

“Yes. Greg. I… Thank you for your concern. I will keep you updated. Good day.”

“Mycro…”

Mycroft hurriedly rung off in fear of making a fool of himself again. The staff member quietly and patiently waited in the corner until he calmed down.

He needed more alcohol in his system if he wanted to get any sleep tonight, he thought, as he picked up the newly topped up tumbler and silently wished he wasn’t alone in his too large office.  

 

*

 

When Sherlock finally returned to London a month later, he marched straight to the New Scotland Yard to look for Lestrade. During his short trip to Dublin, he encountered a murder case that had a weak link to a cold case in London, which encouraged him to seek out his only contact in the force and drag himself out of his hiding.

Lestrade played along with Sherlock long enough to top off Mycroft and arrange a swift pick up.

When Mycroft got there, Sherlock was pacing in Lestrade’s office with other officers outside throwing worried looks in their way every once in a while. Lestrade was making a gesture wildly to encourage Sherlock to go on, faking his own interest. Sherlock was obviously blind to the deceit, too absorbed in the thrill of solving a great puzzle and showing off his own brilliance to a willing audience. It almost made Mycroft’s heart ache.

He let his two security details he brought with himself enter the office before him. Sherlock yelped as soon as he spotted him and his people and tried to escape the office by jumping at them. He butted one of his men’s nose to dodge the closing hands, effectively getting him out of his way. The other man grabbed Sherlock from behind before he could reach the door and kicked him behind his knee. Lestrade stood up, sending the chair falling across the floor as Sherlock’s both arms were secured behind his back with flex cuffs, face pushed against the carpet. Mycroft calmly opened the glass door and let himself in. Lestrade whistled.

“Thank you, for your cooperation,” Mycroft said.

“This is unacceptable! How dare you, Lestrade!” Sherlock hollered.

“I told you, Sherlock. No drug! What did you take this time? Do you think I am a fool?” Lestrade shouted, surprising both him and Sherlock.

What was more surprising, was Sherlock’s solemn reaction. Instead of hurling an insult or making poor excuses for himself, he stopped flailing altogether, sensing his own defeat.

When Mycroft looked up from Sherlock's now unmoving form, satisfied, Lestrade winked. It startled Mycroft.

“Well, it did work, didn’t it?” Lestrade said cheerfully after they left his office.

"Yes, indeed.” Mycroft kept his eyes trained at his umbrella, twirling it in his hand, not wanting to lock his eyes with Lestrade’s, in fear of getting carried away by the childish emotions that Lestrade was obviously experiencing.

“So… what’s your next plan?”

“I will send him to our parents’ place this time. I’ve told them about the situation over the weekend. It broke our mother’s heart. But I realised that I can’t handle the situation by myself anymore.” It was a confession.

“I am glad you have your parents,” Lestrade said quietly.

“Yes, I am glad. I am also glad Sherlock has you. You’ve saved his life.”

“Nah. I am just a poor bugger who can’t solve his own cases without his help. He’s a good one when he’s not high as a kite. He’s too brilliant to be wasted like that. “

“I agree.”

“And I know for a fact that you are good one, too.”

His sincerity was almost unbearable—his knowing eyes locked with his finally. Mycroft broke the eye contact as quickly as he could, turning towards the door, barely hiding his desperation to end the conversation.

“You will tell me when you need help, won’t you?” Lestrade asked before he turned the door handle.

“Of course. Have a good day, Inspector.”

As he closed the door behind him, he could almost hear Lestrade’s habitual correction: “It’s Greg.”   

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft starts appreciating Lestrade's presence in his life but is also afraid to let him in to his life.

 

Three weeks later, Mycroft paid Sherlock another visit.  Despite his busy schedule that month, Mycroft went to check on Sherlock quite regularly, even after the initial stages of withdrawals had passed; for once behaving like the good, sensible eldest son that Mummy often thought him as, holding her soft hands at night and encouraging her to take more sleep in between Sherlock’s shouting, begging and miserable sobbing in agony. He had his people guard Sherlock’s room in case he attempted yet another escape. He couldn’t quite trust his parents to be firm enough with Sherlock when he had his rather impressive manipulative skills up his sleeve.

As soon as he arrived, Mummy offered tea and cookies to both him and Anthea, launching into a gentle rant about Sherlock’s condition and his odd behaviour in the past few weeks. Anthea eyed him in the corner of her eye suspiciously, and nodded when Mummy said Sherlock should be taught a lesson or two about how he could make a mistake sometimes.

Sherlock had been quiet in the room all day, Mummy eventually said. Father had also lost a good ten pounds since Sherlock’s arrival, had been working on the garden and taking a long stroll at least three times a day, not having the heart to stand to watch his youngest son’s painful recovery.

Mycroft decided to check on Sherlock in person, leaving the barely touched cookies and his tea on the table. Mummy followed him at his heel, for once opting to not make any comment on his newly acquired distaste in sweets.

“He might be napping. He had an egg and a bit of bacon this morning. Ate all of it,” Mummy said, standing a good arm’s length behind as he settled in front of the door. He knocked twice and there was no response. “Sherlock,” Mycroft said firmly. He could hear the little jostling sounds on the other side of the door. “I know you are awake. Open the door.”

“Oh, do shut up!” Sherlock bellowed. Mummy looked rather worried and anxious, but Mycroft decided it was indeed the time Sherlock learned a valuable lesson in life. As he determinedly turned the door knob, he found the door was in fact not locked at all.

“After all this time, you are still a spoiled child!” Mycroft said.

“Oh, Mycroft. You don’t want to start this,” Sherlock spat the words venomously.

Mycroft could feel Mummy’s nervous presence behind him.  He decided on a much calmer tone when he spoke again.

“I only hoped to see how you were doing, Sherlock. No need to be so hostile.”

“You. You of all people, you didn’t have any right to confine me here.”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft said warningly, sensing something quite unfortunate was going to happen if he didn’t stop Sherlock right then.

 “You are such a hypocrite, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock—“

“How many glasses?” Sherlock’s eyes were blazing with anger and betrayal. “I asked, how many glasses did you drink since this morning?”

“I think it’s better I get back to London, Mummy,” Mycroft turned around and was faced with a worried, apprehensive look on her face.

He decided enough was enough—and left the room ignoring Sherlock’s frustrated growl, and Mummy’s alarmed face.

“Mycroft!” Mummy called after him, but he pretended he didn’t quite hear it and gave a curt nod in Anthea’s way who had been sipping at her hot tea whilst the commotion took place upstairs, seemingly relaxed and care-free.

“We are leaving,” Mycroft said, opening the front door and grabbing his umbrella with the other hand.

“Yes, sir,” Anthea said, closing the door behind her gloomily.  

Mummy was not as young as she once was and couldn’t quite catch up to them in time when he determinedly stalked to his car outside and firmly closed the door. But when the rapid raps on the window came, he couldn’t quite bring himself to ignore her any longer.  

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft wound down the window just an inch, looking at Mummy’s solemn face.

“Myke… Mycroft. Are you feeling alright? Is everything alright with you in London?”

“Of course. Everything is fine.”

“But you will tell Mummy if something is wrong?” Mycroft was strangely reminded of a certain Detective Inspector and their last conversation.

“I have…a friend. I have people who can take care of me in any case. Don’t worry.”

Mummy nodded, with a cloud of worry still hovering over her otherwise usually cheerful face.

“Good day, Mummy.”

His driver took the hint and started the engine.  Mycroft found himself grabbing a bottle of scotch he kept in his car for emergencies as soon as the car started driving away. He determinedly ignored Anthea’s worried eyes.

 

*

What Sherlock’s blunt comment on his large consumption of alcohol eventually did was that he became much more careful and discreet. Apart from the odd bottles that he kept in his offices across London just for when he had a meeting with a guest who appreciated a sip or two of fine liquor to smooth out their nerves (his presence usually induced such reaction from his guests unfortunately), he had hid the rest in places only he knew and had access to. Under his bed, the bottom drawer of his desk, in the kitchen cupboard—he didn’t understand why he was doing it but the idea of anyone finding out about his habitual drinking frightened him. It was an illogical fear.

Sherlock declared a week later that he would return to London; find a more suitable place to start afresh. It was obvious that Sherlock had something in mind.  

Within the week after Sherlock’s return and a few dozen worried calls from their parents, Anthea reported to him that Lestrade had supplied Sherlock with a few cold cases and Sherlock had been all over London solving crimes with the wretched thing, the skull that he carried around everywhere these days.

Mycroft felt a great relief and gratitude at the news.

“Anthea,” Mycroft says.

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you arrange a meeting with the Detective Inspector Lestrade this afternoon? I believe I have one hour break between the teleconference with the Greeks and a meeting with the representative from the CIA—allocate 30 minutes for him.”

“Consider it done, sir. It’s 2:00pm.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said.

The detective Inspector Lestrade turned out to be one of the best assets he ever had. The man wasn’t on his payroll, wasn’t corruptible and acted purely on loyalty for Sherlock. He already saved his brother’s life and now, he was giving him a purpose of his life. In that regard, Mycroft respected him deeply. Despite having more than enough people working for him in the government, having people under his fingers, he never once had someone who was _simply_ willing to help him. There was always something else—an interest in monetary rewards or career advances. Spies, corrupt politicians, collapsing governments, and spoiled grand-children of dying CEOs of big corporations and banks, were the ones he was familiar with, not an honest, royal police officer who would simply ask how he was doing, and meant just that.

And it didn’t hurt that the man was also easy on the eyes. _Wait, where did that come from?_

Mycroft grabbed his wine glass, and chucked the rest of the red wine down his throat in one go.

The clock read 1:46pm already and he called the staff to clear the glass before Lestrade arrived.

 

*

 

After checking his own reflection in the mirror in the en-suite several times, he came out just on time when the knocks arrived. Mycroft said carefully, “enter.”

Lestrade’s face poked first and as soon as he saw Mycroft leaning on his desk, he smiled his toothy grin, his dark, friendly eyes twinkling.

“Hi, Mycroft. How are you doing today?” Lestrade walked in both of his hand in his pockets. Mycroft couldn’t help himself but smile in return.

“I am fine, thank you. Please take a seat.” Mycroft could  feel the warmth of the wine he just had spreading across his chest and down his stomach.

“So what is this for? I presume it’s about Sherlock? The cases?”

“Yes, well. I was rather worried about Sherlock. I’ve got my own eye on him right now, but I also thought it would be wise to seek your own opinion as well,” Mycroft said. He realised that as the words were leaving his mouth that he meant every one of them and there was no deceit or a lie in what he just said. It was a good feeling.

“I’ve given him a couple of cold cases that I unearthed from the back room. Had to pull some strings and all,  but all in all it was a good thing. Because Sherlock already solved one. I might have shed a tear or two when I contacted the victim’s family and told them we got the man and all that, and…” Lestrade seemed still visibly affected. “And I am glad I have Sherlock. Your brother’s a bloody genius.”

Mycroft took one shaky breath, trying to compose himself but failing. It was the first time in his life to hear such appreciation for what Sherlock had done and Sherlock _had_ done a lot for the public, intended or not.

He had saved lives. He had put criminals away. He provided a closure to the victims’ families.

But he was still just a junkie, a freak in the eyes of those people whose lives were saved by him and it angered him that Sherlock, his brother had to turn to drugs to drown out the pain and no one was there to help him or assist him when he needed the help the most.

And there was this man, Lestrade. No only assisting Sherlock with his recovery but also providing something meaningful to his life: appreciation. That even the skull Sherlock seemed quite attached to couldn’t quite provide.

“Thank you,” Mycroft eventually said.

“But I am also worried…about you, Mycroft. How are you really doing? I saw you when it happened, at the hospital. I saw how you were worried and… do you have anyone who’s taking care of you?”

“I’ve got Anthea. She’s handling my workload. I am not working as much as I did before—“

Lestrade held up his hand and said, “I don’t know what do you for a living, Mycroft. To be honest, I don’t understand why you have to spend so much time at work being some General Counsel or something or another in _the Department of Transport_.” At that Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. He knew Lestrade and Anthea had a few conversations since Sherlock’s overdose, both in person and over the phone when he was rather pre-occupied with his job but still wanted a regular update on Sherlock's condition, but he wasn’t aware that they had a change to discuss his schedule and workload. Anthea didn’t trust anyone at all, usually.

“But I am rather worried about you, too. Sherlock actually said something about you being some bloody underground criminal or something but I don’t believe him. “

“Well, I wouldn’t have an office in this building if I was, would I?” Mycroft asked.

“Because I also know you wouldn’t make a good criminal. You are too caring, to be one.”

It was a sharp stab at his heart.  Lestrade didn’t know how ruthless and heartless he could be. After all, he was aware of what people called him behind his back. Iceman, was what he was known as.

“Inspector…” Mycroft said warily, and was surprised by the hurt look on Lestrade’s face.

“We are mates, right?” Lestrade asked.

Mycroft didn’t want to lie or deceit the man as he would to other men without an ounce of guilt or regret. He wouldn’t.

After a long stretch of silence, Mycroft eventually said, “yes. We are.”

“So please, Mycroft. Please let me know if you need…any help. Alright? About anything.”

Lestrade’s warm hand touched his knee. Mycroft suppressed the shot of electricity, and swallowed.

“Thank you…. Greg.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading again. This will be a slow build, I guess. I was going to end the story in this chapter but it grew on me somehow. There will be more chapters about Lestrade and Mycroft's growing relationship and his addiction. Stay tuned.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft loves relinquishing his control with the help of a bit of alcohol in system, to taste what's like to be an average man in his head. But there are certain consequences he has to pay as well...

After a while, things started settling down. Sherlock’s  career as a consulting detective was taking off. Mycroft checked his website, “Science of Deduction” with mild curiosity one afternoon. Sherlock had already garnered some interest from potential clients it seemed. Mycroft rather thought it was unwise to advertise himself online so carelessly, drawing attention from dubious type of people, but it was what Sherlock wanted. He would just have to keep an eye on him better this time.

After browsing through Sherlock’s website for good 20 minutes, Mycroft decided to type in Lestrade’s name. “Greg Lestrade” got him at least a dozen pictures of him at various press conferences.  He looked rather depressed to be in front of camera, but despite all the gloomy demeanor, he was still attractive. Mycroft thought that it was his disarming smile that gave him silly ideas at night but looking at those pictures proved a point to him that he was just simply attracted to the man in his entirety. Not just as a Sherlock’s minder or just… as a friend. A friend was what the man was turning out to be to him. All the offer of help and small talk in between pointed out the fact that he was not just a business associate to be dismissed from his life with a curt handshake.

The idea thrilled him.

“Sir,” Anthea said, pointedly looking at the watch.

“Ah, yes. It’s time. Bring around the car, I will be ready in a moment.”

“Yes, sir.”

Their flight was scheduled to depart within two hours. He was visiting the States to overlook a few projects with the CIA. He had put off visiting them for as long as he could. He dreaded the long flights with recycled air and mind-numbing action movies from the 90’s. But they kept a few good bottles of vodka and wine from his collection on the private jet, and they would keep him entertained for a while and sleep would come more easily.

Mycroft was too sure how long he would be there, away from his home country this time. Last time he was there, they brought all sorts of issues to his attention seemingly out of thin air, that he had to spend the next five months chained to his chair, sorting things out. It didn’t mean that the Americans necessarily liked him or his meddling. They scoffed at his accent and his suits—they didn’t after all belong to the same chain of command. But they always carefully listened to his suggestions and eager to keep a proper working relationship with him because of his usefulness. As an outsider consultant, he was also more or less above the chain of command, and with his influences, some treated him as if he ran the entire organization, plastering fake, eager smiles on their faces when they saw him in the building. For the first few months with them, Mycroft had to keep reminding himself that they weren’t mocking him or making a joke at his expense. They were simply trying to be friendly.

 “Feeling a little jet-legged?” A familiar voice asked.

Mycroft turned around and found Fred Johnson, the Deputy General Counsel. He had had a few encounters with the man in the past, working together on various projects that led to some memorable successes in his career and ignited his full-fledged professional relationship with the CIA as a consultant and a liaison.

“Good, god. How long has it been this time?” Mycroft said good-naturedly, shaking the offered hand firmly.

“It’s been a while. Why did it take you so long?” Fred asked.

“I was rather pre-occupied with some other matters. You know what it’s like.”

“Of course, of course. I believe you are staying at the Ritz. Fancy a few drinks tonight?”

Mycroft was about to say no, citing his exhaustion. But just a few drinks… wouldn’t do any harm. Just a friendly chat for half an hour, a few cocktails with just a little bit of alcohol to help him sleep tonight.

“I’d love to. Now lead on,” Mycroft said, leaving the pile of reports on his desk rather carelessly.

 

*

 

The friendly chat that was supposed to end within half an hour went on and on, until Mycroft realised it was already quite late into the night and they had been chatting for a couple of hours already. He was rather feeling tipsy. Things felt better and easier. He smiled more easily and Fred had such a good sense of humour. It was rare that he met someone who understood his work at all. Even rarer were people like Fred who still kept a part of their character despite all the rotten things they had gone through, who still knew how to crack a few jokes over drinks after another dreadful day of dealing with the same issues that sprout up day after day.  Mycroft couldn’t properly rest these days knowing one day his effort might not be enough.

“Now,” Fred said, taking the glass gently off his rather slippery hand.  “I think you’ve had enough for the night, Mycroft.”

“I think so,” Mycroft admitted easily. God, he was rather drunk, wasn’t he? Fred’s eyes looked rather blue, sparkling in the dim light in an interesting fashion.

Mycroft nearly jumped when his mobile vibrated, nearly making Fred jump off his stall as well.

“Apologies,” Mycroft said, taking out his mobile, “a text.”

It was rather hard to read the message in the darkened bar. Frustrated, Mycroft moved his mobile to the side to catch the lights above, away from where Fred sat. As the lights hit the screen the message came to live:

_Mycroft. This is Greg. Wantedtotell you sehrlocks doing great. Had a drungsbust again butnothing found. Chhers._

The text was rather awful, littered with an astonishing amount of typos. But still, it made him smile, and made him miss his home country. And he’d been here for only half a day only.

“What’s it?’ Fred asked curiously.

“Nothing. Just a family matter,” Mycroft said easily, pocketing his mobile in his jacket.

“Well, then. Shall I put you up to bed? What’s your room number?”

The tab was already taken care of, Mycroft noticed. Probably whilst he was checking his mobile.  He didn’t like owing people, but he thought he rather deserved a few rounds of drinks from him for what he had done for his career in the past.

“Fred, you know I am more than capable of managing myself. I admit that I am rather inebriated, but not quite enough to give you a cause to treat me like I am an infant…”

“Shhh… I know, Mycroft. But let me just say I don’t want any silly spy to get to you tonight. That will put me in a difficult position, won’t it?”

Mycroft chuckled, holding the offered hand reluctantly. He plucked the key card out of his inner pocket as they were headed to the lifts and gave it to him. Fred tapped the key card to the pad, and the lift started moving up with only the two of them inside.

Fred’s firm hand snuck around Mycroft’s waist firmly as the lift reached his floor. Mycroft realised with a start that Fred wasn’t intending to just see him off, and rather he wanted to spend the night with him tonight. Alcohol did this to him, made him sluggish and average. The little surprises like this actually made him pleased and sometimes, happy.

As soon as they were both in the room, Fred stepped in, and kissed him. His lips felt dry and delicious, and they soon moved down to his neck and started suckling at the soft flesh behind his ear, making Mycroft nearly moan.

“You know, Mycroft…” Fred said, in between the kisses down his neck and under his chin. “I waited for this for long… I waited for my opportunity…” Mycroft took a sharp breath as Fred’s teeth came down on the sensitive patch of skin just above his collar. “I am retiring soon... ”

“What?” _Retiring_? But Fred was way too young to retire right now. He had a promising career yet.  But before Mycroft could give it much thought, Fred’s firm hand traveled down to his bulge, massaging it.

_Hmm… This feels too good. It’s been a while, I can’t…_

Then Mycroft’s phone started ringing. Both of them jumped, breaking off their contact, putting a distance between themselves. Mycroft pulled his mobile out of his pocket, frustrated, and looked at the screen. It was Greg. Greg Lestrade.

He stubbornly saved the man’s number under “ _Detective Inspector Lestrade_ ” and when Fred snuck a look at his phone, Mycroft could say, “work calls. Excuse me.”

Fred nodded stiffly, trying to adjust himself in his trousers. There was an obvious bulge that looked almost painful.

It felt rather awkward to say the least to take the phone call now, but Mycroft also knew the man wouldn’t call him middle of the night for no reason. It would be already past midnight in London.

“Mycroft Holmes.”

“Hi! Mycroft! I just thought I should give you a ring before you hear it from the news or something—“ There were some background noises, of people shouting, taking and giving orders to each other. “Sherlock ‘s got the killer and—Anderson! I told you to keep an eye on…”

Whatever was going on at the crime scene was such a start contrast to his quiet hotel room, with Fred standing seductively behind him, caressing the back of his neck with such a gentle touch,  that he rather felt indecent, felt as if he was still in public.

“I am so sorry, Mycroft. The bottom line is, Sherlock’s safe. The killer tried to go after him but we got ‘im first so no worries.”

Fred kissed him softly again behind his ear, and _how did he know that that was his_ … and after a moment a tad too long, Mycroft stammered out a reply. “I am… Thank you, Greg. For the heads up. But I am… rather occupied here myself in the States. I won’t be able to check on Sherlock in person in the meantime…” There was an odd sort of silence after that and Mycroft could almost feel the start of panic in his chest. Did he notice what was going on here? Did he…

“I wasn’t aware of that. Was it a bad time? Did I wake you or something?” Lestrade said eventually.

“Of course not. I am 5 hours behind.”

“Alright. Good. Because I thought sounded like, erm, a little…”

“Tired? Yes... I just arrived here. It’s…” Understandable. But Mycroft couldn’t quite get the word out, as Fred’s hand pinched his back playfully.

“Right. So how has your day been? Not as hellish as mine has been—“

As the conversation went on, Mycroft felt himself more and more sobering up, as if his senses were coming back. After all he’d had only a few glasses of whisky and a cocktail that Fred assured him was a good choice and…

Then it suddenly hit him, that none of the things that happened tonight was of his volition. The suggestion of a few drinks, the choice of drinks themselves, to the subjects of the conversation and to this. Fred’s presence in his room was never part of the plan and Mycroft never let anything happen without careful planning.

“Mycroft?” Greg said.

The soft, and caring voice brought him back to reality, grounding him firmly. He terribly missed his home.

“I will call you tomorrow morning for more details if that’s acceptable?” Mycroft said calmly.

“Of course. Just ring me anytime you want, Mycroft.”

“Thank you.”

“Good night… Oi! Watch out for the kid! Don’t let him in!”

The line went dead abruptly, leaving him in his own thoughts. Fred said he was retiring. It only meant one thing, Mycroft realised.

“What have you done?” Mycroft said. His mobile still in his hand.

There was a long stretch of silence followed his question—Fred eventually spoke. “I got nearly caught leaking some piece of information to the Koreans.”

Mycroft took a deep breath. “And why are you here?”

“They don’t have anything solid on me, just suspicions. They are still torn between keeping me here under watchful eyes or just getting rid of me. They gave me a choice. They didn’t want any embarrassment obviously.”

Fred’s hand was holding his wrist. He was a trained military operative, Mycroft remembered. And he himself was not.

“Get your hand off me, please.”

“Mycroft, this is not. It’s not what it seems. I might not be a patriot, but—“

Mycroft decided he wasn’t a coward. The alcohol-fueled courage caught him in a tight hold and the next moment, he was pushing him with both hands. But Fred was faster. Before he could give another push, Fred made a step back and twisted his arm. A great pain shot up and Mycroft barely contained his moan.

Mycroft realised that his arm was broken the moment he heard the crack.  As soon as it happened, Fred left his body, startled at his own reaction as well. The years of self-defense training must have unexpectedly took hold of him. What a joke. Trying to keep his dignity as much as possible, Mycroft sat up, holding his breath. God, it hurt.

Fred was now panicking above him, apologizing profusely. It was now obvious that whatever his intentions were tonight, were not malicious in fact. Despite his upcoming early retirement, he still had a lot to lose, after all.

And if they weren’t both drunk tonight, they would have soon realised it that all of this was a bad idea. _Mycroft_ would have known better than him at least and this wouldn’t have happened at all.

“Just leave—“ Mycroft said, swallowing down the pain. “You’d better steer away and keep your distance for a while.  I will alert my staff, and tell them I simply had a fall. Is that all clear?”

Fred nodded quietly.

After a moment he could hear the door close, with Fred already slipped out of the room. Coupled with the pain in his arm the haziness nearly lured him into a blissful sleep. But he couldn’t afford to… leave the things as they were and with his shaky hand, he texted Anthea with his good hand, who was staying a few floors below him.

_Anthea, I require medical attention right now. Discreetly._

Mycroft waited in the dark room, in his own misery.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading again. I posted this chapter by mistake just now. Re-posting after going over some mistakes and adding some changes. :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade knows more than he lets on.
> 
> *I edited a few bits of this chapter to reconcile a few inconsistencies. Sorry for the mistakes.

Mycroft eventually decided to shorten his stay in the States. He was aware that there were some hushed talks about his injury but he ignored them with a stern face and just soldiered on.

He had a stream of meetings for days on end. In between the meetings he had checked his mobile a few times to see if there was any update from Lestrade. It was unfortunate that he hurt his right arm and had to rely on his left hand instead. He dreaded smart phones, much less the touch screens that they came with, but he wasn’t going to let the new technology overwhelm him, not when he could take advantage of it. So with as much distaste as he could muster, he _slide_ the screen open with his thumb to find one text message from Lestrade.

_All;s good. Sherlock cleann &case clossed._

So that was it. All their communication for the past few days had only been about Sherlock’s current case and his well-being. With the case all wrapped up, there wouldn’t be any further communication between them for the time being.

With a heavy sigh, Mycroft pocketed his mobile again and accidentally lifted his broken arm having forgotten the fact that it was indeed broken. The shot of pain in his arm reminded him of his own foolishness, _the stunts_ that night, when Anthea rushed to his room with a panicked look on her face, found him in such a humiliating state in his own hotel room, obviously inebriated and in pain.

This all could have hurt his career very much. If Fred had other intentions that went unnoticed by him that night, and if he had tried to hurt or use him further, he wouldn’t have been able to object. Just one push that didn’t certainly hurt the man resulted in his broken arm. Mycroft was physically awkward, had always been since he was born. He never took an interest in anything physical—be it a sport or… even the idea of a leisurely stroll in a park nearly revolted him.

And if he weren’t drunk, he would have been able to see this, that he was no match for Fred, not in a physical way.

Mycroft popped the pain killers with a sip of water carefully after he came back to his hotel room, and decided it was time he took his much needed break. He couldn’t go on like this forever. With his broken arm and even more broken pride, and his only indulgence in life jeopardizing both his personal and professional life from both ways…

It took him quite some time to persuade his _Masters_ to agree to him taking his leave for a month but he managed it eventually. After all, he had made sure that there wasn’t any impending crisis about to break loose after the talks with the Americans. The hours long discussions and arguments had to mean something, Mycroft thought.

Anthea volunteered to help him pack up his stuff on the day of his departure, obviously not happy with the fact that her stay in the States was abruptly disturbed and…

“What is it Anthea?” Mycroft asked.

“It’s nothing, sir.”

She had been behaving oddly since the incident, had too many questions about how, and when he hurt his arm because she was obviously aware that he had been with Fred for some time. The awkward air hung about them ever since.

“I I am fine,” Mycroft said weakly. His voice lacked the usual confidence.

 

 

*

 

When they finally came back to London, it was already 3am. Tired and fighting off a pounding headache, Mycroft arranged a car to pick him up and headed straight to his place. Anthea looked at him worriedly as he exited the car.

“I will be fine, Anthea. Go on holiday or do whatever else you wished to do. Think of it as a gift for your services,” Mycroft said as he reached the front door.

Anthea nodded quietly once, before hurriedly climbing down the stairs back to the car, leaving him with his suitcase and confusion.  It was as though she was running away.

 

 

*

 

Weeks passed in solitude. Mycroft took painkillers every once in a few hours, with a glass of wine to make them go down smoothly. He drew all curtains to block off the sunlight from outside, as well as the echoes of laughs, chats and cars.

His mobile was switched off as well. He checked emails occasionally, but he made it clear to all his staff that he would be unavailable by phone. Despite the fact that he was officially on leave, still there was work he had to take care of, that no one else was capable of handling—a few ongoing projects he himself organized and in charge of, and a few talks and meetings that had been scheduled months prior. For those, he had to arrange a few video conferences. He scrubbed himself clean and wore a pressed suit for the sake of keeping his reputation as a ruthless and heartless negotiator intact.

But when he wasn’t needed at work, he spent of most of his time at his townhouse, cradling a wine glass in one hand, in his silk pyjamas, away from the daylights, away from his responsibilities.

But of course, he couldn’t just neglect Sherlock. He had already tried to get him some work from his own circle, a more rewarding and interesting kind of work from generous and well-established people that would be more beneficial to Sherlock’s career as a consulting detective but he refused them all on the account that they were offered by him. He would only take work from the idiot police officers, often ending up in holding cells that he had to pull strings to get him out of…

Maybe it was time… to call Sherlock to see if everything was fine. He also had his people checking his activities every hour who were also instructed to inform him if there was anything amiss or suspicious. But sometimes it wasn’t enough.

For the first time in weeks, Mycroft turned his mobile on.

The sudden bright light as the screen came to life made his eyes hurt, and he growled. Then he heard the _beep._ And then another _beep_.

Mycroft carefully peeled his eyes open and looked at the screen. There were several unread texts in his inbox. Was it Sherlock? Was it work? God, no. Please let it be work… It was usually not a very good sign when Sherlock initiated any kind of contact and it _had_ been weeks since they arrived.

What is it?

_Anothercase closed. Sherlookck lookin for a flatmate_

It was Lestrade. Mycroft looked at the text for a long moment before he checked the next one.

_John seems like a good bloke. How are u?_

Mycroft smiled.

_Mrs Hudson invited some of us for dinner this friday. Wil I meet u there?_

Well, seeing how she didn’t call (although she would have been unable to reach him anyway) or text him he wasn’t obviously invited.  They have had some arguments of sort in the past regarding Sherlock’s well-being. She called him a _silly boy_ once and it absolutely outraged him that he flat out refused her tea.

It was a shame that he hadn’t had the oversight to keep in contact with Lestrade, having been made aware in more than several occasions of the benefits of having him on his side. Also being treated like he was a normal human-being, when he was obviously not, was a refreshing treat. Lestrade wasn’t aware of his exact role in the government, and the extension of his power and influences probably. It would explain his more relaxed attitude towards him.

The last text was sent a few days ago and Mycroft decided that he and Mrs Hudson would have to remain friendly on this Friday. Because he intended to join them for dinner, uninvited—he had a brother to take care of living in the place, after all.

 

*

 

Mycroft stubbornly put on his three piece suit despite the fact he was officially on leave, and carefully took off the plastic splint that had been holding his arm.

All in all, having his schedules cleared for a month had certainly its benefits. Such as this impromptu visit to Mrs Hudson’s. 

His pocket watch read 6.30pm. It would have to do, Mycroft told himself.

 

*

 

The drive was even and a welcoming change to the weeks of locking himself away in his home. He left the window open, feeling the breezy air from outside. When his favourite bakery passed by, he took a whiff of something sweet, almost prompting him to jump out of his car to grab his favourite éclair, but when his right hand unconsciously tried to reach the door, he felt a shot of pain. 

Well, there. You needed to learn a lesson, Mycroft told himself.

His car eventually reached Baker Street. He realised it when his driver finally gathered enough courage to turn around and said, “sir, we are at the location.” Mycroft nodded sharply, too proud to acknowledge the fact that he was just caught _daydreaming_ , and briskly got out of the car, ignoring the helping hand. As soon as he closed the door, with the firm words to his driver that he would be back within half an hour, he caught a sight of the familiar figure walking toward 221B, mumbling something into his mobile, “need to get the warrant first then. Something’s fishy. I’ve got a hunch that—“ then he stopped mid-sentence.  There was a sudden intake of air before Lestrade said: “Mycroft? “

He jogged over with a huge smile, his mobile forgotten in his hand.  Mycroft could hear a faint ‘are you still there?’ from his mobile, and Lestrade hastily said, “I will call you later,” and turned to him. “I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight.”

“Well…” Mycroft hesitated.

Lestrade looked at his face carefully, standing only a foot away from him. Mycroft had to supress the surge of a start of panic as Lestrade stepped even further into his personal space, blatantly ignoring the common etiquette, eyes boring into his. 

“Welll… erm, so are you here for the dinner?” Lestrade said eventually, shoving both of his hands in his pockets.

“I am not invited.” Mycroft said honestly.

There was an awkward pause after that.

“Well, Mrs Hudson wouldn’t mind, if you stay for dinner.  I am sure.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said.

Lestrade still didn’t move from where he stood, too far into his personal space to be polite but still not close enough for his own selfish, terrible desire.

“Shall we?” Lestrade said, moving towards the building housing his brother’s flat.

Mycroft hurriedly averted his eyes, and followed him to the building a few steps behind. He consciously didn’t look at Lestrade’s back side as they walked past the glass panels at the Speedy’s.

 

 

*

 

Sherlock was in his pyjamas, drinking his afternoon tea, whilst John was writing up his blog post on his laptop. Mrs Hudson was nowhere to be seen, presumably at the supermarket to pick up a few ingredients for the dinner.

As soon as Lestrade stepped in, John brightened up. “Greg! Any good news?” Then he noticed Mycroft standing behind him. His face instantly fell. It nearly made him turn around and walk back down the stairs and leave. But he was far too used to this kind of reaction and treatment from people to justify such childish reaction. John had once been willing to work as an intermediary between the brothers, but due to the lack of rewards or perhaps it was down to his certain lack of social skills, that he had been entirely put off the idea and turned rather hostile towards Mycroft after a few unfortunate incidents.

“What do you need?” John asked.

Lestrade looked between them, confused. Clearly he wasn’t aware of their difficult _relationship_.

“I am merely here to check up on Sherlock, as usual. No need to be alarmed,” Mycroft said smoothly.

“Piss off!” Sherlock snarled, having spotted him as well.

“Oi! That’s not the way to talk to your brother!” Lestrade interjected.

All heads turned towards him, surprised. Even Mycroft wasn’t expecting that sort of reaction from him.

“I am alive, clean and waiting for dinner. So now, if you are satisfied brother, you can remove your fat arse from my flat.” Sherlock didn’t even bat an eye as he continued.

Mycroft’s stomach clenched. He was here uninvited. Even the good Mrs Hudson didn’t want him here even for just one meal. There would be more people joining them tonight and it was prudent that he left before they all arrived to avoid further commotion. His brother, who he had nearly sacrificed his own life, his career to save on many occasions, wouldn’t even spend a minute with him in the same place. Greg, the poor man, was simply too a generous man to ignore his loneliness, obviously. And to think he might have been genuinely wanted here by any of them tonight, even for half an hour.

His arm ached in his sleeve terribly and Mycroft took a deep, calming breath.

“As you wish.”

With his left hand clenched around his umbrella, Mycroft took brisk steps toward the door, trying to avoid further insults from Sherlock. As he was about to cross the threshold, however, Sherlock opened his mouth again.

“What happened?”

Mycroft see the curious look on Sherlock face, his eyes trained on his right arm. He had noticed his injury then.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Mycroft said tersely. Their eyes locked for a moment as Sherlock internally debated whether or not a prolonged conversation with Mycroft could be justified in the name of satisfying his curiosity regarding the origin of his injury. The moment passed soon as Sherlock turned his attention back to his tea, obviously thought better of it, much to Mycroft’s relief.

“Good day. Greg and John.” Mycroft looked at their confused face, and left with a nod.

As Mycroft reached his car, Lestrade shouted his name.

“Mycroft! Wait!”

He should have stayed at home, really.

Mycroft turned around slowly, reining the emotions in. Lestrade stood before him rather awkwardly, trying to take more measured breaths in before he spoke.

“I know, Sherlock’s a right git sometimes. I will have word with him later.  I might hold off on giving him some cold cases that I promised.” Then Lestrade smiled sheepishly. It delighted him. Terrified him.

“You don’t have to, Greg. I am quite fine. After all, I grew up with Sherlock.” Mycroft tried to offer him a weak smile in return.

“Yeah I know. Must have been hellish, yeah?” Lestrade took another step in. Mycroft’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest.

“Yes… That would be quite a fitting description, yes.” 

Lestrade let out a bark of laughter at that. Mycroft wanted to join in, terribly so, but couldn’t. He felt paralysed by the frankness of his laughter, offered freely and willingly.

“Ah, look, Mycroft,” Lestrade said after sobering up. “I’ve been thinking… you know, if you want. We could go out sometime and have a bee..r, er, beef steak?”

“Beef steak?”

“Yeah, I mean. Yeah,” Lestrade said, embarrassed.

Was he asking him out on a date?

Mycroft built his life around numbers. Statistics. Probabilities.  He calculated, predicted, and planned even his life. He was a well-organized man that lived within certain parameters and routines. He was never meant to have a relationship. He had concluded at a young age, after seeing what sentiments did to many others, and to himself. He only too vividly remembered that night, when the poor Jeremy got killed in a car accident. They promised, If they didn’t find a girl to kiss before they turned sixteen ,that they would share their first kiss with each other. Jeremy O’keeffe was the boy’s full name, died just a week before his sixteenth birthday. His was a month later.

“I am terribly sorry, Greg, but…”

Mycroft swallowed a lump down in his throat and continued, “but I think, perhaps, it’s better to keep our relationship strictly professional for our own benefit and—Sherlock.”

“But—“ Lestrade opened his mouth to object, but before he could finish, Mycroft turned around and opened the door to get into his car. Mycroft couldn’t trust himself to stay detached, or pretend to be detached if he was interrupted again.

“Wait, Mycroft, just—“

Before he could disappear behind the door, Lestrade touched his _right_ upper arm in desperation.

Mycroft hissed involuntarily, cradling his arm.

His reaction must have shocked Lestrade, as he jumped back, letting go of his arm as if he was burned. Mycroft saw panic in Lestrade’s dark eyes.

“No, Greg. It’s…”

“Did, did I hurt you? What’s wrong, Mycroft?”

“I am fine,” Mycroft said stubbornly.  He seated himself farther inside of the car, away from the hurt look on Lestrade’s face.  “I am fine, Greg.”

There was a long silence. Mycroft felt terrified and too exposed under his watchful eyes. What was more terrifying was that Mycroft couldn’t read his face, shadowed by the roof of his car, guarded, and schooled down. _This must be him in the interrogation room_ , Mycroft thought.

“There was an incident, when I was in the States. You don’t have to worry yourself,” Mycroft croaked out and closed the door firmly.

Lestrade didn’t object or make another attempt to stop him this time.

With the knowledge that Lestrade couldn’t see his face through the tinted window, Mycroft looked at his distressed face longingly for the last time before the car started driving away. Away from the things he could never have.

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Things moved on, slowly.

Months passed, and before he realised it was already winter. The Christmas was hellish, with Mummy fussing over his weight loss and trying to feed him all sorts of things in her feeble attempt to keep him _healthy_. It would have been nice for once if Sherlock had been there as well to share the burden and attention from her for once. The few sips of wine with the chocolate had been his only consolation between the breaks, when Mummy was rather preoccupied with the cooking and fussing over Father instead.

He hardly saw Lestrade either. They exchanged nods from a distance when their paths crossed but that was all they did. Lestrade was obviously trying to keep a distance from him. Which was good.

When Mycroft finally decided to pay a visit to 221B, ignoring John’s another threat of breaking his umbrella into two if he ever set his foot there again, he didn’t expect to see Lestrade there. It was there untold rule that they kept different schedules when concerning their rather semi-regular visits to 221B and usually Mycroft visited them during the day time.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, knowing his brother was in the lounge. A head turned in his direction and Mycroft realised with a start that it was not Sherlock.

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft said with a stiff smile, expecting the usual correction from him to call him _Greg_. But it didn’t come.

Lestrade blinked several times and smiled carefully. “Mycroft. I am afraid Sherlock’s not here. He just left to have a look at some body parts Molly got for him.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah. Before I could persuade him to take the case he was gone.” Lestrade’s smile felt tired and forced. Mycroft took a tentative step in his direction and decided, against his better judgement, to take a sit across from him.

The air was awkward. They hadn’t been really talking with each other much since _the incident,_ a lapse of judgement on Lestrade’s part, but Mycroft was willing to make amends. He could do business partners, work associates, colleagues. Lestrade’s role as Sherlock’s minder put him in one of those categories somewhere, he was sure.  

“May I?” Mycroft asked, extending his hand. The manila file was sitting on the table next to him, firmly closed despite the fact that it was here in 221B not in one of the cabinets in the NSY with a key.

“I am sorry?”

“I cannot possibly guarantee that I could provide you any substantial assistance, but…” Mycroft nodded towards the file one more time and locked his eyes with Lestrade’s, smiling tightly.

“Oh.  Yeah…” Lestrade grabbed the file hastily and handed it to him, struck by the idea.

Before Mycroft’s fingers could touch them, however, Lestrade added, “I trust you to be discreet. This isn’t supposed to be here.”

“Of course.” Ignoring the hesitation in Lestrade’s eyes, Mycroft snatched the file off his hand and started rifling through the documents and gruesome pictures inside. He could feel the curious eyes on him.

“You don’t find them too…graphic?” Lestrade asked.

Mycroft tilted his head and turned his eyes back to him, asking, “has Sherlock ever shown revulsion to dead bodies and blood?”

“…no, never. He’s a tough nut, that one,” Lestrade said.

“We have developed a way of looking at things with a sort of detachment, in order to stay objective as much as possible. That way, we are able to deduce more accurately with a lower chance of being wrong.”

Mycroft flipped though the crime scene photos, having already found what he had been looking for.

“Erm, yeah, so you can just turn it off like that?”

Mycroft handed the file over to Lestrade calmly. Lestrade looked confused for a moment before taking it off his hand.

“Yes, we must. We can’t simply afford sentiments. They get to you and you lose,” Mycroft added as he stood up.

Lestrade eyed him from where he sat, but didn’t say anything. Mycroft moved towards the door, his umbrella in hand. His arm completely healed. He shivered slightly as he remembered the pain, the sensation of the warm palm against his body, the hot, accusing eyes. The cold air that blew into his car as he closed the door firmly between them.

“I’d look at the watch of the victim more closely. That doesn’t belong to her. It’s on the wrong wrist. She most likely preferred to wear her watch on her right wrist as the sleeve there is folded when the left sleeve is not. It’s probable that it has been replaced, most likely by the murderer, who for some reason, had to get rid of the original watch the victim was wearing.”

 “…but why?” Lestrade croaked out.

“I don’t care about why, Detective Inspector, nor can I possibly understand the minds of criminals and their motivations. That’s your job. Just check the serial number of the watch and find out when and where it was purchased. That would be a good enough lead.”

With that, Mycroft stepped out of 221B, leaving behind Lestrade in the lounge. This case was too simple for Sherlock to take any interest in. Or perhaps not. Since the victim was found hanging upside down on a tree with her son's name scribbled on her forehead in her own blood. The gruesomeness of it all alone might have been enough to entice Sherlock. His brother was hard to predict.

But no matter.

 

 

*

 

 

Sherlock was furious that Mycroft snatched his case from him, despite the fact that he’d been refusing to help Lestrade with the case for weeks at that point. The sibling rivalry was going strong as ever.

 

_Thank you._

 

But it was all worth it, for some reason. The text on his mobile was enough of a reward. Lestrade, _Greg_ , was worth it.

 

 

*

 

Mycroft had tried, before. He’d gone on without drinking for weeks at a time, and there came the crash. Binge drinking was what it was _._ Just a thought of a sip of drink sent his mind into near frenzy. The next moment, he would be going through his cabinet, grabbing anything that he got his hands on first. The first sip was the best, burning his insides and giving him the buzz in his head that he didn’t know he craved, shutting off the world around him and giving him the peace that made him feel like his entire life was a joke. All the idiots he dealt with on a daily basis, the forced laughs, carefully scripted jokes, jibber-jabbers about the global warming, some minor political crisis that made the front page instead of theirs, retirement in some country village with a fake identity and an aging dog that would never come—all those things that didn’t matter came crashing back to his mind, overwhelming him, choking him to grab his drink again blindly for relief.

Anthea liked her steak medium rare. Sherlock was unhappy because John was going out with another woman from the clinic.

Lestrade’s marriage was breaking down again. The wife was cheating on him.

Mycroft didn’t need the details, didn’t need to know them.

He drank from the bottle directly, not caring what he drank and how much. The Bond Air project was going rather smoothly. They had finally found enough bodies to load on the plane, just enough to give them the wrong idea that it was full of live people, and worth to shot down. He had done all the planning, carefully constructing the ways to find and collect the dead bodies without leaving a trail. It had taken him years and years of contemplating, and nights alone in his office, in his head. All the lies he told Mummy when she called him in the middle of the night, asking if he was eating healthily, if he was taking enough rest, were to protect this. The lives that he could potentially save were more important than his loneliness. Without the cold and brutal determination, he was going to lose.

He needed his drinks. He needed to drown out the silly ideas and thought that popped in his head again and again. He should never dream of kissing the strong jaw, and touching the soft, greying hair with his fingers. Their first date that wouldn’t ever happen.

 

 

*

 

“How’s the diet?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m busy, Sherlock. What’s the problem?”

Mycroft looked at his pocket watch. There was another meeting scheduled with the CIA in the next ten minutes. Bloody Americans.

“Mummy said you’ve been avoiding her calls recently.”

“I’ve been busy, Sherlock. You’ve perhaps noticed that I haven’t been around your flat either for some time. That should be enough of a giveaway.”

Anthea was hovering around the door, indicating that they had arrived. Mycroft was almost tempted to shut his mobile off, but this was Sherlock. He didn’t want to take risks.

His hand shook minutely.

“Shall I inform our mother then you _are_ fine?”

“I am fine.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, his doubt obvious in his disapproving tone. The line went dead before Mycroft could put another word in.

 

 

*

 

After the last relapse, Mycroft had made sure that his cabinet was cleared and he steered clear away from the Diogenes for a while. He had more than enough offices he kept across the city and didn’t find the lack of quiet company of the other members of the Diogenes too disturbing.

Moriarty turned out to be more than handful to keep under his thumb. There were whispers of his name and his unfortunate infatuation with Sherlock. Something was happening.  But he didn’t know exactly what.

He wasn’t worried about himself. He had been in this game for so long that he was past the point of caring. If he had cared enough about his own well-being, he should have pulled out, a long time ago.

“These are the cases Sherlock’s ever consulted for the past couple of years,” Lestrade said. There were stacks of files on the table. Mycroft could feel the curious eyes of Mrs Hudson from the corner of his eye over at the counter.

“Thank you, Inspector.”

“He’s mixing with the really wrong people this time, isn’t he?”

Mycroft carefully opened one of the files. The white A4 paper was filled with details of a recent case that should be really confidential, omitted in the official report. He checked the next page.

“Sherlock’s playing with a fire. I am trying to put it out as best I can. “ The sudden irritation he felt inside of his chest had nothing to do with Lestrade, but his hand was just an inch from his, casually placed next to his cup of tea.

Mycroft tried to cover the slight tremble in his hand by grabbing the handle of his mug, closing the file rather forcefully.

“This will be all. Thank you for your cooperation again.”

“Aren’t you gonna drink your tea?”

Mycroft looked down at his hand. The tremble was still there. “Of course.”

“I have half an hour to kill. Why don't we just sit here and enjoy our tea for a while?”

The warm eyes met his, and Mycroft nodded, bringing his mug to his lips, knowing full well the eyes are seeing the minute tremble in his hand. He also knew, somehow, that there wouldn’t be any accusing comment or question.

“We could do that,” Mycroft finally said, finally relaxing, and understanding. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading guys and sticking with the story. We are almost there.


End file.
